


Words Left Unsaid

by Arke, sparkly_butthole



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers 4 speculation, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Baby's first stucky, Epistolary, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, One author is sorry, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), The other is definitely not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arke/pseuds/Arke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/pseuds/sparkly_butthole
Summary: Steve thought he'd have the chance to say how he felt. What he wanted.Or at least goodbye.Turns out he wasn't the only one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been a month since Infinity War came out, but it took some time to process everything. This is our speculation of how Avengers 4 could go. It's not a happy story by any stretch. 
> 
> Huge thank you to [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry) for beta'ing this even though it was sad. All hail the Glow Cloud!

Steve’s been sitting there, still and silent for God knows how long, waiting for the visions to stop. But they don’t, they just keep coming, memories replaying over and over again like they’ve got a score to settle. Bucky had called out to him, had wanted his reassurance in those last seconds, in heaven-knows-what kind of pain, and Steve had been so confused and terrified that he couldn’t even comfort the man he’d loved for the entirety of his life.

 

There are so many regrets. A lifetime’s worth. Dragging Bucky, his playful, perfect, popular friend, down into his never-ending quest to do what was right, the chip on Steve’s shoulder too large for him to carry on his own. Bucky had been there every step of the way, giving Steve whatever he needed throughout their childhood and early adulthood, no matter the cost to himself. And it had cost him, though he tried his damndest to hide it. He’d always called Steve the self-sacrificing moron between the two of them, but he’d obviously been mistaken.

 

Then there was the war and Zola and the train, _God_ , the train. Steve didn’t follow Bucky to the bottom of that ravine, and if he had, well… Bucky would’ve gone on to live the kind of life he’d always deserved, with a wife and a litter of kids, the works. And maybe Steve wouldn’t have crash-landed the Valkyrie into the Arctic ice. Maybe he’d have found another way.

 

All these maybes, and what do they mean now?

 

He’d gotten Bucky back, and instead of staying by his side, Steve had run off, still looking for fights to get into after all these years. No wonder Bucky didn’t come find him after D.C. Why would he go looking for a friend like that? Better to be on his own than to have Steve by his side. Steve, who’d taken too damn long to say it. Steve, who’d been a coward his whole life in the one way that mattered.

 

 _There’ll be time for that later_ , he’d said when Bucky had called him straight out of cryo, but it turned out there hadn’t been time, there’d been nothing but sorrow, and now Steve’s kicking himself up, down, and sideways for staying away for so long. Steve, who had always said, _No, I can’t make it down there yet_ , or _No, you don’t need the stress of my visit, not with what’s following me around these days._

 

Steve’s an idiot, that’s the thing, a blind goddamn idiot, because Bucky’s gone, and ‘yet’ and ‘these days’ are completely and utterly meaningless now. He should’ve been there, each and every time Bucky had called him. What else on this Earth could possibly be worth the love he’d felt - still feels, will _always_ feel - for the man he’d called his best friend? The man who’d been waiting patiently for him, only to see him twice in the six months he’d been out of cryo.

 

And now it’s too late to make up for that. Far, _far_ too late. Steve’s heart is so much crushed glass beneath his feet, and all that’s left of Bucky is ashes. His selfish heart says _let it be me, let me be the one to have gone_ , yet how is that fair? To leave Bucky in a state like this? Better it be Bucky than him, for no longer existing is by far the best position for either of them if they can’t be together. Sure, Steve would take a bullet and die for Bucky, but he’d also take a bullet to make sure Bucky didn’t feel any pain. And neither death nor pain had ever been counted among his fears, but this… this is different.

 

He goes about his daily tasks as if in a trance, like a zombie, a walking corpse filled to the brim with all the things he should’ve said when he had the chance. And even though his teammates, the wonderful, incredible people they are, do everything they can to cheer him up, to bring him hope, he holds none for himself. Tony, bless his heart, says they can do it, they can bring Bucky and the others back, but who knows what the cost will be? And they all know as soon as they touch one of those infinity stones, the Mad Titan will be back as well, madder than hell and with a score to settle. What are the odds they’ll all survive? Even if they _can_ bring Bucky back - and Sam, and Pepper, and all those they love - what good will it do in the face of Thanos’ power? A god who cannot be killed - how will they ever be able to defeat him?

 

Maybe Steve’s being morbid, maybe he’s the most pessimistic, cynical asshole in existence - though he doubts that - but the odds just don’t look good. It’s not that Steve’s not going to try to get his people through to the other side, assuming they really can bring Bucky back to him, but he’s not counting on it ending well. At least not for the two of them.

 

For weeks now, his skin has been crawling like _he’s_ the one fading to ashes, and it’s not until Natasha wordlessly hands him a pen and paper that he sees, if not a way past his grief, a way through it, and that’s _something_.

 

 

> _Buck,_
> 
> _I really don’t know what I’m doing, writing this. You were always the one who was so good with words. Not like me. My fumbling around always made it worse somehow. But I have no idea what else to do with these thoughts, other than let them drive me crazy, so I’m going to try this._
> 
>  
> 
> _They think they can bring you back. Isn’t that something? They think you and all the others like you are trapped somewhere else, not really dead, but not really alive, either. They have a plan to go after not the gauntlet, but the stones themselves, and Bucky, let me tell you, they’re idiots. Thanos will rip them to shreds and let their pieces fall to the ground._
> 
>  
> 
> _Or maybe I just can’t bear to hope. Because even if you come back, the fight that will follow will be the biggest yet, and this time, I fear there will be no magic button to bring one of us back to life. If there even is one now._
> 
>  
> 
> _What am I even talking about? That wasn’t the point of this._

 

He considers crumpling up the paper and throwing it away, starting a new letter, but figures that maybe Bucky _should_ hear all this, deserves to finally know Steve’s thoughts, if only the version of Bucky that lives in Steve’s own mind. That, and he’s too tired to make his way to the trash can in the kitchen. He’s too tired to think, truthfully, but it’s not like he can turn his damn mind off.

 

Bucky deserved to live this way. He deserved everything good in the world and then some. He deserved so much better than he got, from the moment he shipped off to England to the end of his life.

 

Steve, who’s failed Bucky over and over and _over_ again, does not.

 

 

> _The point is this: I love you. I’ve been in love with you since elementary school, since the very moment I met you in Mrs. Adelman’s class, when you sat next to me and told that Blackstone kid to shove off when he started picking on me for being Irish. I remember yelling at you, telling you I could handle myself. You snorted and said “I know,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world._
> 
>  
> 
> _God, I fell so hard for you that day. And the next day, and the next. I fell in love with you every time you smiled, because your smile was like the sun shining on flowers, the color of which I hadn’t the eyes to truly see back then. I fell in love with you every time we argued, because you never once treated me like an invalid, the way everyone else seemed to want to. I fell in love when you dazzled the dames, when you came home from the docks exhausted every night, when you cried the day your daddy fell over in a puddle of his last drink and never woke up again. And seeing you here, after all you’ve been through, I realized I’m more in love with you than ever. You’re the strongest, most brave person I’ve ever known. You’re my hero, James Buchanan Barnes. You always were._
> 
>  
> 
> _And here I am now, the great Captain America, supposed hero, like I could ever hold a candle to your strength. These people look to me to lead, but I’m… Jesus, Buck, I’m compromised. I can’t think straight, can’t see what’s right in front of me half the time, the grief is such a huge chasm. Am I an idiot, or merely a man in love and grieving? It’s not like everyone else isn’t dead on their feet, and I know some people aren’t showing it like they could be. Okoye and Shuri are determined to bring back their king, and I envy them that, because I’ve lost you five times now and I just can’t anymore, Buck. I can’t. There’s only so much even I can take. And that’s not to diminish their loss at all, it’s just… I never got to say it. It’s not just that I’ve lost you again and again, it’s that each and every time, I keep my damn mouth shut. I never got to tell you that I love you._
> 
>  
> 
> _So here it is, in case I never get the chance to say it: I love you. I love you._ _I love you._
> 
>  
> 
> _Jesus, maybe I’m being melodramatic here. Tony’s sure he can bring you back, all of you. Says a space wizard wearing a sentient cloak gave him the key to unlocking our destiny, and damned if I don’t believe such a crazy story. Stranger things have happened. Bigger miracles than us both surviving this thing have happened, too. I just can’t help but feel like we’ve both beaten death so many times… our time’s gotta be up someday. We are who we are, and the world counts on us to be those people._
> 
>  
> 
> _I just… for once in my damn life, want to be the person that puts you first. Because no matter my sins, no matter how often I’ve failed you, and no matter what happens next, you are the person I fight for. You always were._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Steve_

 

He seals the letter and puts it away in one of his uniform’s many pockets. Maybe it’s smarter or saner to leave it here at the palace, but Steve doesn’t deserve that. He needs to carry this burden until the end of the war, until he can tell Bucky… or the end of the line, if it turns out that way.

 

And as the sun shines on the fields of Wakanda, as they prepare themselves for the ritual that will bring back the dead, and the Titan along with them, Steve feels the letter there, against his chest. The weight of the letter is as heavy in his pocket as the words are in his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky’s been sitting there, still and silent for God knows how long, waiting for the visions to stop.

 

The palace is oddly quiet around him. The battle is over, but everything – and everyone – seems broken by it. The other Avengers mill around the room, exhausted with the weight of the universe still resting on their shoulders, and the unspoken question bounces around between all of them through brief glances and troubled sighs.

 

_What now?_

 

Natasha brings a pensive hand to her chin as she looks askance at him, not that he even looks back at her. He doesn’t know what comes next. He can’t bring himself to care. There’s no searching the beautiful, sunlit Wakandan horizon for some hopeful future. All he can see is the battle that ended hours ago, the war that ended with a storm of blood and ash, and the eyes of friends staring back at him as their souls left them for good.

 

A hundred different fractured scenes play out before him, a kaleidoscope of broken glass, sharp edges reflecting it all back at him over and over until he can do nothing more than sit and stare into nothingness, too weary to muster up the hope that the void will black out the painful light.

 

He should be dead, but he can still feel survivor’s guilt. And yet guilt is but one of the shards that stabs at him. It’s the loss, the absence, the fear of a life alone, that weigh the heaviest upon his shoulders. He’d been alone for so long, programmed to do as commanded, more machine than human. But he’d been saved, he’d been brought back from an existence akin to death, and he’d dared to dream of a life beyond it. A life free of the shackles that’d bound him for decades. A life built of his own choice. A life with meaning and purpose. A life with him.

 

Him. _Steve_.

 

As if she’d heard his thoughts, Natasha approaches him. Slowly, cautiously – because she’d actually read it in his eyes from across the room.

 

“James,” she says, but stops there.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond. He just swallows hard as he drifts out of the void and back into reality. His head turns slightly toward her, nearly imperceptibly so, eyes still glassed over as his vision begins to refocus: green eyes, long hair, lithe figure.

 

It’s not him. Not Steve.

 

“James,” she repeats, “I know you’re probably still feeling a bit numb after… after what happened.”

 

She hesitates, watching for any sort of reaction, but all she gets is a muted sigh, some broken breath that barely makes a sound at all.

 

“There was nothing we could’ve done, any of us,” she continues, steeling her voice as if to power through it. But it quickly cracks with the next breath. “I thought you should kn— _have_ something.”

 

And when Natasha hands him an unmarked letter, Bucky himself nearly cracks under the weight of it. It’s heavy in his hands, a folded-up paper with the faintest lines of dirt settled into the tiny, uneven creases that litter the edges.

 

Natasha keeps her head tilted down and looks up at him from beneath fanned-out eyelashes. She doesn’t have to tell him who the letter is from. He’d known the instant he felt the weight of those unspoken words in the palms of his hands.

 

“We found this on his body,” she says, and she doesn’t have to say any more.

 

She can see his movements a little more pronounced, the scattered twitches of his fingertips evidence of both the departure of Hydra’s programming and the return of his humanity. All the unrefined emotion that came with that is made manifest: deep-seated fears and unbridled passion and a newfound sense of justice in the need to right his own wrongs. But more than that, she sees longing in his eyes. The longing he never wanted her to see but can no longer hide.

 

She hands him the pen she’d taken from Steve’s room; it’d been her first stop after the dust had settled and the team – what remains of the team – returned to the palace in their collective effort to figure out what would come next for all of them. His fingers quiver around the pen. He knows exactly what she’s silently telling him. All she can offer him at this point is a brittle, sympathetic smile, and time alone with his thoughts.

 

Once she’s gone, Bucky abandons the pen on the side table, then turns the letter over in one hand and opens it with the other. The folded sheet is stiff, but the embedded creases finally give way and the words spill forth.

 

He reads it.

 

He hears Steve’s voice with every fumbling story, with every awkward transition, with every shy admission. He sees Steve hunched over a desk as he tries to force out his own words, raking a hand through his hair in frustration and gripping his pen a little too tightly, forgetting his own super-soldier strength. He knows Steve is there in every word, in the strange fluidity of the words he’d spilled all over the page in a collection of messy handwriting and slanted lines, just as beautiful in its dissonance as the man himself.

 

He feels Steve like his best friend is still with him, Captain America’s hand clapping him on the back after a job well done and Steve Rogers’ fingertips lingering just a bit too long. Just long enough to create a moment of respite from it all – as brothers in arms, as friends, as the potential for something more.

 

And with a little bit of hope and desperation, he lets himself believe that Steve is still with him.

 

He turns the letter over to the blank backside, picks up the pen, and tells Steve everything.

 

> _This is it.  We’ve made it here._

 

There’s no proper opening, no salutation designed to feign some sense of formality; they’re well beyond that now, and they have been for such a long time.

 

> _It’s strange, looking back. Everything looks so different from a distance._
> 
>  
> 
> _I remember that young kid, that punk with a sense of justice too big for his skinny little shoulders. Always trying to stand up for the little guy, always trying to save everybody else. Always getting himself into trouble. Back alley fights and worldwide wars and everything in between._
> 
>  
> 
> _Who knew that young punk would save my life more than once._
> 
>  
> 
> _It shocked the hell out of me to see that kid become a one-man war machine. It scared the hell out of me, too, just knowing that you were going to take on a fight you might’ve actually been able to win. That kid suddenly didn’t need me to watch over him, or to save his ass from his next fight. I just kept remembering that kid I’d grown up with, the one with the asthma attacks and colds every other day. I thought I’d lost you – I thought I’d lost Steve – somewhere under all of that super-soldier getup._
> 
>  
> 
> _But that kid saved me from the worst fate I could’ve ever imagined. He saved me from myself._
> 
>  
> 
> _Maybe we’re both just those kids at heart. Just two kids from Brooklyn – who’d have imagined we’d end up here? Soldiers made by war and circumstance. Brothers-in-arms for a long time, and friends for even longer._
> 
>  
> 
> _We’ve fought like hell to get here. And this is it, Steve. This is the end of the line._
> 
>  
> 
> _This is where I tell you that you’ve been a pain in my ass since we were too young to know better. This is where I tell you that you’re still the punk you’ve always been – maybe a little reckless, maybe a little bit too brave. This is where I tell you that I admired that about you, and that I still do. This is where I tell you that I love you, too._
> 
>  
> 
> _This is where we say goodbye._

 

There’s no proper ending, either. No signature, no hidden love confession buried within paragraphs of flowery prose. Because they’ve said it so many times before, in a hundred different ways: a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, a somber salute in Bucky’s direction, strong arms holding each other up both on the battlefield and off. They’ve loved each other for so long. And even now, there’s no end in sight.

 

_This is goodbye, but it’s not the end._

 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

 

That’s what he tells himself as he folds up the letter and stuffs it into a pocket. He keeps it close to his heart, the weight of all the words they’d never said pressing upon his chest just enough to make it difficult to breathe at times. The next few days scrape by as the world slowly stumbles back into the natural order of things – gravity holding him to the ground, hope holding him still, Steve holding him together.

 

But everything skids to a halt when Bucky sees Steve in his last resting place.

 

The funeral is small, quiet, even confined. Bucky keeps his hands jammed in his pockets as he makes his way over the threshold, never saying a word, never letting those last hopeful visions of the future shatter like all the ones before. His heart stops the moment he finds Steve still and silent in his coffin, arms folded over his chest, adorned in an ashy gray suit too close to the one he’d worn to his own mother’s funeral.

 

And Bucky suddenly feels lost.

 

He doesn’t have Captain America at his back in the midst of some difficult mission. He doesn’t have Steve holding him up when he’s fallen. He loses all sense of direction, all sense of purpose, all sense of meaning when he sees the man lying in the coffin, the man who can no longer meet his gaze with blue eyes too soft for his angular jaw, can no longer give him that reassuring smile, can no longer tell him that _it’s okay_.

 

The visions finally stop. There’s nothing more to see. Nothing more to look forward to. There’s just nothing left.

 

No point in denying it. This is the end of the line.

 

Bucky folds up the letter one last time and tucks it into the pocket of Steve’s dress shirt. He leaves behind in the coffin the immutable past and the promise of a future in each other’s embrace. He’s said his goodbye to Steve, and he doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Arke's first stucky fic, so I hope you'll all give her some love! 
> 
> And let's all hope Avengers 4 isn't quite this grim.


End file.
